


D&Drabbles

by deliquescere



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Original Character(s), Personal Canon, Writing Exercise, advanced sorry to anyone reading this, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:27:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 4,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26207182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deliquescere/pseuds/deliquescere
Summary: A collection of ficlets, drabbles, and other works for my Dungeons & Dragons OCs, for a series of writing exercises with a friend.





	1. Lovers/Soulmate: Charity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: How would a ____ view this character? 300-500 words.
> 
> This features a half-elf Runechild Sorcerer named Charity. She was my character for a oneshot heavily themed on the DA2 DLC Mark of the Assassin, taking on the role of Tallis for a bunch of adventurers. However, Charity works for the mafia. The fantasy mafia. Wooo!

Lord Hathus Durand was a ruthless man, confident in his power and his ability to wield it where best needed. A delicate hand here, a cudgel there… and the Unseen Assembly _moved,_ the thousand clicking parts beating and working in accordance with his ministrations. But he did not go this far from judicious use of influence, no—there was a time he had nothing, was nothing… except for his gift. His awareness of the delicate strings which bound people at the seams, to each other, to _concepts._ It was with this gift that he built his empire—his _family—_ and it was with this gift, he noted with wry, exasperated amusement…

… that he noticed that his bodyguard and his saboteur, his best lieutenants, were involved with one another. His _children._ Hathus felt old. Wasn’t it yesterday when they were grubby-faced rascals running petty schemes on the street?

Charity had returned from the gala. She had rushed to his office as soon as she arrived, not taking the time change out of the sharp, flattering suit she wore to the event, nor remove the ostentatious chains from her slightly tapered ears. The elegant features of her pale face were arranged into its usual stoic expression. Were it not for the strands of dark hair knocked loose from her braided updo, the slight droop of her shoulders, and the way she favored her left leg, none would have guessed that his adopted daughter was injured. And yet, despite that, the artifact he had sent her to retrieve was in his hands, without fail.

He allowed himself to feel a rush of anger at the adventurers who had failed to keep her safe. A sentiment echoed by the towering, muscle-bound half-orc a hand’s width from his chair, if the way his crossed arms tensed was anything to go by.

A lesser man would have missed how Charity’s hazel eyes, warmed by the fire, locked on to Chance during a lull in her report, how the corner of her mouth tilted up in reassurance. The enforcer sighed and scratched his stubble. Hathus _swore_ he spied the half-orc’s fists twitch, one unfurling and reaching out before falling awkwardly to the vicious-looking mace on his hip. 

(The action did not go unnoticed. Charity looked vaguely amused, teeth flashing as she bit down on her lower lip, and Hathus didn’t need an eye at the back of his head to know that the fool was beet-red. He had never been the subtle sort.)

Again, Hathus felt very old, and the tiniest smidge awkward to be in the middle of this unspoken exchange. At least they’ve progressed past throwing heated looks at each other out in the open. _Those_ were challenging times.

“Go, then. I am not infirm enough to need assistance in getting to my quarters.” His chuckle was brief, brittle; Chance stiffened behind him, and he could feel golden eyes locking onto the back of his head, searching for a deeper meaning. Durand waved a hand in dismissal, and the boy finally startled and stomped ( _gods but was he noisy_ ) out the office beside the smaller half-elf.

(And if he saw them walking down the hallway later on, Chance’s arm around Charity’s waist, her head against his bicep and her weight against his body in a rare admission of vulnerability, he kept it to himself.)


	2. Power Duo/Partner in Crime: Flavia Alonzo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: How would a ____ view this character? 300-500 words.
> 
> Here's Flavia (Flavortown), my Thief Rogue for a homebrewed PbP on Discord.

The two of them made quite a pair: Cébrian, russet hair slicked back ( _for once_ ), in his dashing gold-threaded suit and Flavia in a ludicrous ball gown, sun-kissed skin and pale scars bright against the soft rose satin. A honey badger kept pace at their heels, the ruffled collar around its neck flapping back and forth with each belligerent step.

Her laugh was unrestrained in its delight as they slipped from the streets of Iyn Entheas into an empty courtyard, lamplight giving way to cool air and shadows dimming the patterned stone tiles. His eyes sparkled despite the pout he aimed at her direction. “Show off.”

“You’re just jealous because it _worked,_ Brin.” The laugh tapered off into a good-natured giggle. Flavia reached for her ears on reflex, but her fingers passed through air—her wild honeyed curls had been forced into a barely-contained updo with several ( _expensive_ ) pearl clasps, though their escapade through the alleys jostled it out of place. She stopped in place, lips twitching into a coy smile as she tapped her chin. Here we go. He knew that look. “You could’ve done that flip too… _If you sucked in your gut._ ”

There it was.

Flavia avoided the responding swat with a wicked giggle, the snapped bits of her crinoline clanging softly against the ground. “You think I didn’t catch you _siphoning_ those shrimp bites off the buffet!? You were clearing house so fast it was a wonder the servers could refill their trays at all!”

“I was sneaking food to Mavis!” Cébrian hissed. The aforementioned badger leveled a stare at the duo—it was _not_ taking sides, not when Flavia had launched it in the air when they were cornered in a balcony, not when Cébrian tucked it under his arm and commanded “be a whirling storm of death and claws, Mavis!” before plunging into the throng.

“ _Oooh, Via, do all the hard work while I sample the finger food._ ” Then a brief impression of what Flavia thought Brin would sound like as a wealthy, obnoxious asshole. Very snacky and with bad table manners, apparently. “ _Then hold my hair back as I heave into some poor family’s laundry line!_ ”

The shadows stretched the further they walked into the compound—a grand domed structure towered over the rest of the gilded upper city; its grandeur was highlighted by the vibrant banners streaming from every window, crystalline frescoes sparkling bright as the stars on the night sky. House Milthar. Even down here one could catch the noises of revelry from the celebration they left behind.

The two of them paused between two pillars to drink in the sight, Cébrian’s lean figure surpassing Flavia by nearly a foot. He shook his head then, moonlight dancing over his tan skin, and looked at his dearest friend. “When do you think they’ll notice?”

Flavia’s eyes lit up, but not from the spare light shed by the fireworks. Excitement. Mischief. And a glimmer of calculation. “What makes you think they will?”


	3. BFF/Close Friend: Alcestis of Kthonia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: How would a ____ view this character? 300-500 words.
> 
> Alcestis is super cursed: I've tried to play her for CoS, a oneshot, and two PbP campaigns. Never worked out. I guess the dice gods wanted her to stay safe with her husband and kids.

The mists crept in soon as the sun lowered beneath the pine-tipped hills, whispering over the silent road crossing the Meadows of the Dead. Night fell. What began as a gentle obstacle to visibility quickly became an all-consuming fog, the air so thick and cold you felt it on your lips, a thousand tiny knives trailing through exposed skin.

Below the second hill was the village of Kthonia, ancient, proud. The first settlement in the region, before Chessenta earned its name. When the surrounding fields were dark with blood and soot, innumerable weapons of conquest scattered broken as their wielders in the dust. Before Kelemvor’s breath covered the meadows—His Sorrow, the faithful said. The more practical folk called it a god-given curfew. At this hour every establishment in the humble village was silent, the faintest glimpse of flame through shuttered windows the only sign the inhabitants were awake. Everyone knew better than to be outside in the mists.

Twin lanterns pierced the haze. Two hooded figures stepped out, the air curling around the hem of their robes as if to grasp the cloth—to yank them back into the unknown. It hardly seemed to bother the pair. The smaller one pulled his hood down to reveal an elderly halfling, eyes twinkling under unkempt white eyebrows. He stroked his beard when his companion approached the still-burning lamp at the side of the road, its light falling upon her features: angular cheeks, milk-pale skin, and solemn eyes colored silver under the rising moonlight. A pendant of Urogalan hung from thick cords around the old man’s neck, while the book secured to the woman’s belt was emblazoned with Kelemvor’s emblem.

“I appreciate your help tonight, Yarrow,” Alcestis raised her voice. Soft as it was, it barely registered over the nighttime breeze. Compared to the stocky halfling, she was as limber as a sapling… and twice as tall. Hunched forward and prone to deliberate, ponderous movements, Alcestis had been told many times over how… intimidating her appearance could be. To strangers, that is. Kthonians had nothing to fear from their grave cleric.

Yarrow lowered his hand and laughed, not unkindly. “We walk the same path, my dear. Even if I were not indebted—"

An otherworldly cry from the distance snatched their attention from the conversation; Alcestis straightened up, back stiff and the grey in her eyes sharp as steel. Her companion sighed. “That is our cue, then.”

She nodded.

“We have monsters to hunt.”


	4. Casual Friend/Gossip Buddy: Nimue Mal’iras

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: How would a ____ view this character? 300-500 words.
> 
> Playing Nimue was what encouraged me from never touching IRL games ever again unless I know the people I'm playing with hehehehe. :) She's actually a Swashbuckler Rogue, but I returned her to her original subclass (Arcane Trickster) for this because I say so.

“I heard a little bird…”

Revas turned his eyes from the bear figurine he was whittling, a flash of blue and sea-green settling on the stump beside his. Nimue fluttered her eyelashes at him in mock-innocence. He noted that she had swapped out their tribal leathers for garb more suited to her current line of work: the earthy tunic and wool-lined coat remained, though trimmed and hidden beneath a patchwork of leather armor and vibrant patterned cloth, the likes of which were infamous among sailors. Most importantly, though… She wore _boots_ now. Steel-capped and singed at the edges. Revas idly wondered if those were caused by gunpowder fires; a careless mistake in the midst of a pitched battle at sea, perhaps?

“… say that Brielle has eyes for that strapping blacksmith, and this return trip is to secure his hand in marriage.”

At that, he laughed, warmth blooming through his chest when her smile widened at the sound. “Have you been listening to the Elder again?” Revas shook his head, his voice wry. “She’s with child, and you know how they feel about that. They wouldn’t care if she was marrying a demon-spawn, or one of those snake people from the south—only that she brought a husband back to the clan.”

Nimue wrinkled her nose at that. He felt the stirrings of a passionate argument kindle as she opened her mouth—then she closed it, and her fingers, lined with pale scars thin as cobwebs, played with her moonlight hair. “I see.”

That’s it?

The surprise might have been obvious because she glared at him as soon as the words left her mouth. “I don’t want to start a fight. Not with you. I haven’t been home in so long and—”

Revas let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, and his hands thoughtlessly continued in their work. Only their breathing and the faint scratching of steel against wood permeated the silence. When did things get so awkward between them?

“I saw a dragon,” Nimue gently redirected the conversation, ever the one to pick up the words loosed and try to find where they best fit. Revas was all too happy to play along—he didn’t need to think about betrayal, or abandonment then and now, or _anger_ , lessened by the years but bubbling under the surface all the same.

“Oh?” The tip of his fang glinted under the spheres of light Nimue conjured from her palm, and bright pinks and blues covered the white of his grin. “Seeing that you’re here now, I’m guessing you did the smart thing and ran?”

“Not at first.” There, the conversation was picking up as Nimue hit her stride—ever the natural storyteller. Old wounds soothed by novelties. Maybe they could make this work. “Our paladin thought we could handle it, so our party attacked. Then it reared up, and this great cloud of poisonous gas…”


	5. Family/Friend of Family: Ryfen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: How would a ____ view this character?
> 
> Feat. disaster Whispers Bard/Mastermind Rogue, Ryfen. Oneshot.

They didn’t say he was handsome. Like, really, really, _could be used as a model for a work of art_ handsome. On that alone she could understand how Cousin Sabine was attracted so. _Although, I suppose,_ Cira thought as she stared at the tiefling leaning over the balcony, his profile warmed by golden light spilling in from the ballroom, _that isn’t worth much to us._

She delicately cleared her throat, and Ryfen turned to look at his newest intruder. The lamplight flattered his crimson skin—he was bright, too bright almost, like a ruby held against the fire. And despite the lack of anything remotely close to pupils in those eyes, Cira found that he had a piercing stare. Molten gold seeping into the pits of her soul. Whatever he found must have been satisfactory, because the tiefling nodded—a wordless invitation to approach.

_Mother would be furious,_ Cira noted with amusement. _He addresses me as though we are the same in rank._ This must be normal? Cousin Sabine certainly didn’t impress that she loved him for his manners during their last conversation—quite the contrary, in fact! He was an urchin. She complained about his churlishness, his propensity to cutting words and barbs (as was she, which led to frequent rows), and his inability to process his thoughts before acting upon them. And yet. And yet, Sabine said that he was _loyal_ , and so, so smart, so keen, and that—

That she would leave the family if her father refused to the union, trade deals be damned.

So. Asides from being drop-dead gorgeous, the horned bastard was now at the epicenter of a hundred negotiations stalled without Sabine’s guiding hand. The family had thrown this engagement party ( _Mother snorted when they received their invitation_ ), though Cira was old enough to glean that this was a thinly veiled execution by social means. Ryfen and Sabine had been under fire since the start of the evening, and though she was stuck at the other end of the room, she caught whispers about how his expression darkened over the evening, the brimstone odor thickening ‘til you could taste hellfire on your tongue—until he had nearly lunged at one of the distant cousins, and Sibby had to march him off somewhere.

Here he was.

“Cirielle…?” Ryfen said as she walked over, lifting a brow and peering up at her face. She nodded.

Silence.

“I hate this fuckin’ party.” His voice was rough at the edges and smooth as warm rum.

She nodded. “I do so hate pointless gatherings.”

They began listing off more things they hated about the event, their pace awkward at first—then speeding up as they got more comfortable, even branching out to inane things to hate.

He continued. “And I hate your mother’s stupid hat. Who wears birds on their hair? Fuckin’ idiot.”

Cira rolled her lips together, unable to contain the giggle which bubbled forth. “Oh, I hate that too. Words cannot express. And I hate—”


	6. Acquaintance/ Business Associate: Tidecaller Neteku

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: How would a ___ view your character? 300-500 words.
> 
> Ah, the character I spent so much time on. For a homebrew campaign. Heavily inspired from POE aumaua.

By the White Snake, but they were _big._

As part of the Republic’s military attaché to Lassat, Ivari considered herself adept at knowing what to expect from the yuan-ti. The “riff raff,” or at least those in the yuan-ti culture, were those closest in form to the rest of the mortal races. On the other hand, the Anathemas, the “purest”, were gigantic anacondas with a humanoid upper body, often with multiple extremities. Anathema Cassiopeia’s _hair_ was (were…?) multiple other snakes, many of which were venomous—as an unlucky assassin found out during last month’s banquet.

But this…

Well, firstly, she had heard of the genasi. She knew that the race was unique in that their physical appearance and innate magic was often influenced by their elemental parent.

The hulking individual in front of her had their hands on their hips, and Ivari noticed with a nervous flutter how those arms alone could pop her head off her shoulders. Their skin was sleek gray, speckled blue and white in places—deceptively smooth-looking, like a seal, only for one to discover it had the pleasing qualities of sharkskin on an errant touch. She absentmindedly rubbed her elbow at the memory. The _Tidecaller_ ’ _s_ wild hair was loose, surrounding their face and cascading down their back. If she squinted real hard, she could swear that the white strands moved with a life of their own, sometimes alight with cerulean blips that disappeared as quickly as they came.

“Aorakai, not genasi. The river flows to the sea, but it is not foolish enough to consider itself the whole.” Their voice was deep, reverberating from their chest, and Ivari found herself lulled to calm by its waves. One could not miss the pride in those words. “I am from Tuotuiloa.”

“Mhm.” Ivari jolted awake. “Whu-what are you doing here then, if I may ask?”

“Why ask if you can ask, when you can do?” The upper half of the Tidecaller’s face was covered by a mask carved from coral, ends thin like a veil over the back of their head but so thick at the center she wondered how they could even see at all. She didn’t need it off to glean that they were studying her next move. Before the Republic could find itself in a diplomatic fiasco, the Tidecaller continued. “Have you thought of the sea, Officer Ivari?”

Well, they were on the Anathema’s boat right now. “We are above it.”

The Tidecaller smirked, drawing attention to the faint scar above their lip. And across their arms. And was that another one peeking out from the gap in their armor? Oh dear.

“It is violent, wild, inconstant. Yet it gives life and relief.” They puffed their chest out. “I am a warrior-priest of B’suwhana, the Eyeless God. Mother of the Sea.”

And at once, their unseen gaze turns magnetic, roiling with the power of a churning squall about to break. “I am an agent of change and a conduit of Her wrath.”


	7. Friend of Friend/Stranger: Rosemary Fairloom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: How would a _____ view this character? 300-500 words.
> 
> I'M SO RUSTY I'M SORRY ROSIE!!!

Karissa glanced around her again, then knocked on the flimsy door. This place was… suspicious. The building was built close to one of Waterdeep’s major sewage outlets, and though the night breeze carried most of the odor away before it dwelled on her nostrils, she couldn’t imagine how it must smell in the sweltering heat. Thank small mercies that summer was over. If that wasn’t bad enough… the place looked absolutely horrible—it was a pitted ghost of a building, the exterior walls stripped by looters and beggars, leaving nothing but thin planks rotted through with age. It was because of these holes that she knew the healer was inside and awake—dim light punched out in holes of various sizes to bathe the closest tiles. Speaking of that, even the stones on the foundation were crumbling and beset with weeds.

What kind of hospice was this…?

The door opened before she could knock on it again, and Karissa found herself face to face with another human. This one was the same height, with pale blonde hair and soft, plaintive blue-grey eyes. The loose braid which swung behind her was barely in its original shape and her cheeks were covered with herbal paste, as were her calloused hands. Hands that, despite their deceptive appearance, seemed as though they could wield a weapon with deadly intent.

There was no doubt regarding the identity of the cleric.

“Yes?” The other woman’s voice was as gentle as rushing water, and Karissa’s shoulders released the tension she had unknowingly carried on her way here. The cleric—Rosemary—offered her a smile and cracked the door open a bit wider. She could see into the room beyond now, and it was lined with gurneys and homemade stretchers—all but one occupied by various patients. Most were members of the two gangs which made this particular joint the site of their usual territorial skirmishes, smack as it was between the two factions. She shifted nervously at the sight.

“Don’t worry about them. None of them are allowed to lift a finger at each other—or anyone here, for that matter—while they’re in here.” Rosemary spoke up, as if sensing her discomfort, and stepped to the side to give her some space. Karissa noted that the girl spoke in a calm, measured tone, with the knowing patience of those several times over her age. And did she hear a country accent? Was she from the Dalelands? “Now. What do you need?”


	8. Thin Ice/Barely Tolerated: Igen

She should’ve killed him. Now, she had no chance. The genasi had become wise to her game.

It wasn’t an easy task, though none of the tasks she had ever been given were easy—and she prided herself on surviving that which her lessers failed. At her core, she wondered how Grandmaster Phedras thought _she_ could face Neheli’s pet and live. Perhaps it was her trial, to throw herself against him until their fists bled, bodies forged by the violence of their blows. Perhaps it was to rid himself of a weak disciple.

Even among the diversity in their ranks, the genasi stood out. He dressed the same, looked the same: sleeveless robes, the sides of his head shaved to the scalp with the rest of his ebony hair braided down. Moved the same, even—shared the same wiry, graceful build as the other monks. She had seen him weave from one target to another with deadly, efficient precision, same as Grandmaster Neheli. At first, nobody understood why she would adopt one such as him; his polished, gleaming blue skin, streaked with blacks and golds down the forearms and the calves, were a dead giveaway of his inhuman origins. Harder to stay inconspicuous.

As if driven by that challenge, the genasi persevered until he was the best of his batch, then theirs—no need to hide if any who saw you was dead.

Perhaps that was why she failed. She forgot that he never truly rested, that he knew he was at the top and was waiting for the brave ( _foolish_ ) soul who would try to knock him from his throne. Or he was simply better. Or because the realization that _now, while he’s distracted!_ barely overrode her instincts, the beat of hesitation enough for him to glean her intentions. Whatever it had been caused him to duck when she swung the kama at his exposed back, the corpses of the travelers around them cooling in the twilight gloom.

The Order of the Long Death didn’t engender trust and fellowship among its members. You were to kill or be killed, and to die in the service of the Order was not only expected—it was embraced. It was the best gift the weak could impart. Why else did they hold those tournaments, pitting follower against followers, grandmaster against grandmaster, if not to approach their goal to understand suffering and the trappings—the many ends—of mortality?

And so, she didn’t know how to feel when he distanced himself and watched her. She couldn’t place the emotion in those obsidian eyes. Understanding? Anger? Resignation? Comfort in the fact the betrayal was expected, relief that it didn’t go as planned?

Sadness?

Foolish, that. There was no room for emotions in their path.

But she failed. And now he _knew_ and—feeling his gaze tracking her form, the jagged thrust of his attention piercing her nape, sometimes even when they weren’t in the same room—they understood he intended to collect.

Soon.


	9. Rival/Enemy: Cress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: How would a _____ view this character? 300-500 words.
> 
> Cress, half-elf Shepherd Druid. Oneshot.

The forest screamed.

Or at least, that was what it sounded like—or it could have been _him_ screaming. His leg hurt so, so much.

A blur in the trees, and a sudden, searing bolt of pain as _something_ crashed against him from the side. The man stumbled and rolled over, only stopping when his back hit a tree. He groaned. The impact rushed the breath out of his lungs. He felt like… well, shit. Everything had blurred together in one cacophonous, blinding swath of color. It took a while for the dizziness and nausea to fade—it was only just overridden by the sheer panic roaring through his limbs. One of which was dead at the moment.

He managed to pull himself up. Good. Good, he can sit.

Suppressing another groan—and trying to move his tongue from the roof of his mouth or up from his throat, wherever it had been stuck—wasn’t that easy when it felt like your whole body was on fire. His leg sent up hot flashes of pain, and he briefly remembered… an arrow? An arrow, twisting out with deadly precision from somewhere in the canopy.

A muffled _thump_ drew his attention forward, and he saw…

The figure stood up from its crouch, and he saw that its fingers were extended like claws, the very edges narrowed to points slick with a dark red liquid. Two bright points of color pierced through the matted, dirt-streaked expanse the creature called its face—and then, a glimpse of teeth, as it ran its tongue over a fang.

Despite himself, he screamed. There wasn’t much to do at this point, really. He had lost his weapons on the way, and even if he had them on his person, he couldn’t do shit. That was what the mercs were for.


End file.
